


Haunt Me

by chemicallydefective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Hurt No Comfort, I once promised myself that I would never write anything without a happy ending, Nightmares, Overdosing, POV First Person, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Post-The Sign of Three, Sherlock looks back at his childhood (briefly), So much angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, Violence, most of the characters are only mentioned, not absolutely sure what's considered 'graphic', that didn't work out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicallydefective/pseuds/chemicallydefective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It took five weeks with no contact for me to relapse. Lying on my bed, facing the ceiling, I had control. I was acutely aware of every sensation, and was ready to react if anything tried to attack. I was superior to matters concerning married doctors and white lies about steadfast friendships. I was truer than any truth, even ones about being forgotten by the best human I would ever meet. My power was more harrowing than the wounds of an era's end."</p><p>Set after the Sign of Three, but diverges from canon in that Isaac Whitney doesn't go missing, and Charles Augustus Magnussen doesn't pressure Lady Smallwood about her husband's letters.</p><p>Rated Mature for drug use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunt Me

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT:** Please look through the tags before reading. If anything listed triggers you, please don't read. The ones I listed are the only possible triggers in this fic that I could think of, but if there are more, please let me know.
> 
> This was written at around 4 AM, and has been beta'd since then. It hasn't been britpicked, though, so feel free to point mistakes out to me. I'd also love to know what you think, so leave me a comment :)

I had sworn to myself years ago that I would stay alive for John Watson. I would stop any dangers that might come his way, and I would play him the violin when he had a nightmare until my arms were sore. I would stay alive for him for as long as he needed me to.

-

John kept telling me that he owed me. I hated it when he said that. He would tell me that I could have anything, would bring my desires to the tip of my tongue, begging to be poured out. I would never be able say any of them, though. I would let them choke me, block my airway, flood my lungs and stop me breathing, but I would never let them spill out.

I hated when he told me that he owed me because it was an empty promise wrapped in a kind voice and genuine eyes that I had learned to trust so much. He was the only person that I had ever truly let know me. I had trusted him with everything of myself, I had lost him just to keep him safe, I had set him apart for two years, let him become the only thing keeping me alive, and had come back for him. I had even told him as much as I could about how I felt about him in my best man speech, after having seen him vow to love someone else. When I met him, I had breathed him in with a last-ditch gasp to stay alive, and I had injected his poison into my skin just for the rush, all while knowing that the high would end. I had never had such a withdrawal, though.

Everything had slowed down on the night of John's wedding. I watched him and Mary dance and smile and laugh and I had slipped out of my skin. I was seeing everything through someone else's eyes. It was as though I couldn't taste anything I ate, couldn't feel anything I touched. In the weeks after, I grew restless, but no cases piqued my interest. I would've been too tired to pursue them anyway.

-

John's eyes were dark blue above mine. I was lying down on something cold and hard with an inherent sense of panic sitting in my chest, and he was leaning over me. He was smiling warmly and glowing with the stark whiteness of the room. He jumped back as I sprung upright. I was sitting on a metal table in my finest suit, surrounded by a white glow as far as I could see. John was wearing a crooked smile beside me. The quiet of the room was thick in my lungs, and the air smelled of antiseptic.

"You're fine," said John, lightly.

Suddenly, tall flames erupted, bright, ubiquitous, and less than a metre from scorching us.

"How do we get out?" I asked with more earnest than intended.

John chuckled. "You're fine," he answered, nodding toward the flames beside him.

A door materialised where he had indicated, and I jumped off of the table to drag John by his sleeve towards it. The flames we had to walk through to get to the door felt coolly surreal, like air from a fan brushing cold skin. I ran through the threshold desperately, pulling John into my arms as soon as we had both crossed.

I had my eyes squeezed shut as I panted against John's shoulder, every gasp leaving me feeling even more breathless. I tried to say something, tried to tell John that I loved him, but my words turned into bubbles as they left my mouth. I jumped away from him and opened my eyes to take in my surroundings.

Just as the other room had been whiteness and whiteness as far as I could see, this one was darkness and darkness. No light was shining on either of us; logically, I shouldn't have been able to see John at all, but he was clear before me, looking casually around as though nothing were wrong. My skin felt like it was immersed in water, but my clothes were dry. It was like we were standing at the bottom of a swimming pool. Only then did I start to feel like I was drowning. I gave John a panicked look with which I tried to apologise, but he just smiled even wider than he was already.

"You're fine," he said as clearly as though he were on the surface.

He kept repeating those two words to me as I began to cry. The wet sensation had gone, but we were still surrounded by darkness.

"I'm sorry," I sobbed into my hands. "I didn't mean for this to happen to you, I don't know where we are, I don't know how we got here, I'm sorry."

I looked up into John's eyes when he grabbed my shoulders. "You're fine," he said.

I pulled him into my arms and cried into his hair. He was sliding his hands gently up and down my back, and I was clinging onto him with everything I had. I kept trying to tell him everything I wanted to, but the words would get choked by watery gasps.

"You're fine," John said into my neck. His hands came to rest just above my hips. "You're fine," he said, reaching into my back pocket and pulling something out. "You're fine," he said, pulling away from our embrace, but keeping his hands on my shoulders. "You're fine," he said, turning something around in his left hand, grinning warmly, eyes smiling into mine. He was wearing his most gentle expression as his left hand moved across my throat. The blade glinted off of his eyes and made them sparkle like they did when I realised I was in love with him. His strong, steady hands looked beautiful with my blood covering them. "You're fine," he said.

The pain was the last thing I registered before waking up with a scream.

-

It took five weeks with no contact for me to relapse. Lying on my bed, facing the ceiling, I had control. I was acutely aware of every sensation, and was ready to react if anything tried to attack. I was superior to matters concerning married doctors and white lies about steadfast friendships. I was truer than any truth, even ones about being forgotten by the best human I would ever meet. My power was even more harrowing than the wounds of an era's end.

-

I had sworn to myself years ago that I would stay alive for John Watson. I would stop any dangers that might come his way, and I would play him the violin when he had a nightmare until my arms were sore. I would stay alive for him for as long as he needed me to.

He now had someone else to stay alive for him.

-

My father had always wanted the best for me. He had had a marvellous upbringing, complete with rugby, candy, and support. He encouraged me to join teams and clubs, tried to get me socialised well despite the bullying I had been chosen for from the beginning. It took years to find the chemistry club. I was one of the five members, and was therefore subject to endless teasing that my father strongly disapproved of. He was happy that I had found something that I loved, but didn't want me to be bullied to the point where my shields and confidence dissolved. In retrospect, I shouldn't have dismissed everything he said so readily.

My mother had always wanted the best for me. She never brushed me off, and always kept my curiosity stimulated. She was proud that I had taken a liking to science, and had taught me the resilience I needed to keep doing what made me happy no matter what others thought. She did everything she could, really. She taught me that confidence was looking in the mirror and seeing that I deserved the best, taught me that if I felt worthy, I was worthy. She couldn't, however, make me feel that.

Mycroft had always wanted the best for me. He was proud to call me his little brother throughout his adolescence. He didn't always interfere when I was bullied, but he never failed to talk to me about it on the same night. He would always leave his friends to sit with me at lunch if he noticed that I was alone, knowing that sitting with his friends would make me anxious. He never forced me into a social situation in which I didn't want to be, and he never made me feel alone. The only time he had ever failed me as a boy was when I was seven, and had asked him why everybody who I cared about always left (he couldn't answer). Later, though, addiction had completely blind-sided us. I refused his help, and let myself waste away, and after years and years, Mycroft decided that he didn't want to see that anymore. He left, as well.

Victor Trevor had always wanted the best for me. Throughout my school years, I had been told that no one would ever love me, and had eventually decided not to love anyone first. I had made an exception for Victor, though. He was the first friend I had ever made. We met in university, and had taken a liking to each other almost immediately. The love I developed for him was the kind that they made movies about, but his was even more overwhelming. I never thought that I deserved him. I became paranoid after several months, even with his constant reassurances. I started to distance myself so that when he left it wouldn't hurt as much. I was too proud to explain that to him, though, so he thought that it was because I didn't love him anymore. He left me, too.

John had always wanted the best for me. When I met him, I was at a terrible point. I couldn't see the use in staying alive. I was always so tired, but couldn't sleep. I was irritable and aggressive towards others, but all my bravado turned into lethargy, hopelessness and self-loathing when I was alone. I had even started to think of ways to commit suicide. When I was in sight of a gun or something of the like, I would think to myself, _Could I? Who would miss me?_ Then John came into my life and became a reason to keep surviving. Three years ago, he had begged by my graveside for one more miracle; I was left begging for the same just to make him stay.

-

The duvet was rough under my palms where my harsh grip was taking purchase. My liquid features rippled in the mirror: pale skin no longer smooth, purple lips out of their usual smirk, and red eyes bereft of their curious sparkle. I looked like a corpse.

I fell back onto the bed, laughing. Three weeks of near-constant drug use had really deteriorated my body's physical state, but I was too high to be bothered by that. Even during the few hours in which I was sober, I felt better than I looked, as though my body were running the final stretch.

As the beginnings of my high's end slinked near, John's exit music began to play in my head. I had composed the song to commemorate two months without contact. I was only trying to distract myself from withdrawal, but still came up with the best piece I had ever composed. I had gathered up all my feelings for John and tried to flush them out into the music.

It started gentle, cautious. It was soft and slow, but bright and joyful. The piece picked up in tempo and turned slightly more longing. One part borrowed from the Woman's song. Then, a fall from a great crescendo turned the piece sorrowful, angry. It sped up as it continued, with suspended chords and staccato accents. It only slowed as its end approached.

I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. It was as slow as I felt, several of my senses dimming. Cocaine use is known to cause hallucinations, but as I heard my breath slow down, John's voice definitely registered quietly. He was asking around for Mrs. Hudson (who was visiting her sister), and everything was starting to blur into black. He was climbing the stairs to the flat, calling my name, and the smell of rain ebbed away. He was stepping into my room, he was grasping frantically at my wrist, and my pulse was coming to a stop.

I could hear (but not feel) him crying against me, and the last chord of his song faded away.

**Author's Note:**

> I used [this website](http://www.camh.ca/en/hospital/health_information/a_z_mental_health_and_addiction_information/Cocaine/Pages/default.aspx) to do a bit of research about cocaine use. I therefore know that if you were to overdose, that isn't the way you would go. I had another ending written, but was dissatisfied with it.
> 
> Anyways, I'm thinking of a sequel from John's POV, let me know what you'd think of that.


End file.
